


Six (or Seven) Steps

by TechnicalTragedy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/TechnicalTragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve become quite predictable, these attacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six (or Seven) Steps

**Author's Note:**

> My word prompt was neurotic. Thoughts about neuroticism led to thoughts about anxiety attacks, somehow.

Step One: Depression

Tony sags against the wall, and slides down until he’s sitting against it, his legs splayed out in front of him. He doesn’t always feel so drained when depression hits, but this time he feels like he can hardly hold himself up. Even sitting seems to be wearing away at his energy.

Everything seems pointless to him right now, and in his mind he knows it’ll pass, that this stage is the hardest, that nothing is pointless when there is Steve in the world, he can’t help but feel like he’s trapped in some meaningless cycle of nothing.

He covers his face with his hands, and wants to cry, but it’s like he’s forgotten how, so he just sits against the wall until this lethargic emptiness fades.

 

Step Two: Sadness

When Tony finally feels tears slip down his cheeks, he knows that the first part is over. With that realization comes a crushing wave of sadness. His tears increase until he’s weeping into his hands, choking and coughing, snot and saliva and salty tears mixing on his chin and hands.

He cries for many things: for his mother and father’s deaths, for Pepper and Rhodey and how he dragged them down with him, for the Avengers who don’t know what they’ve gotten themselves into. He cries for himself, self-pity and self-hatred coalescing in his chest and forcing more disgusting, snotty sobs into his hands, still spotted with motor oil and littered with cuts.

Tony cries for what feels like hours, and even when the sadness fades tears still make tracks down his cheeks.

 

Step Three: Anger

"Fuck!" he chokes into his hands,  swallowing with difficulty and trying to get himself under control. "Fuck," he repeats, softer, but no less vehement.

Tony forces himself to his feet and into the bathroom, hitting the faucet with a not-so-filthy part of his hand and shoving them both under the flow. He scrubs his hands, then moves onto his face, purposefully digging his nails into his skin and rubbing it raw, wanting the physical pain to distract him from the emotional turmoil brewing beneath his skin. He’s so fucked up he can’t even have an attack without it being so utterly unchanged every time.

When he pulls his hands from the steaming water, they’re red and tender, bleeding in a couple of places. He swallows heavily, looking up at himself and scowling at his red-eyed, frazzled-looking reflection. He spits into the sink, hating the thickness in his throat.

"Fuck," he says again, loud and coarse. "Fuck!" he says it again, tasting it in his mouth, and then his fist is crashing into the mirror without his knowledge and it shatters and the pieces fall into the sink and some pieces are lodged in his hand and its bleeding more and "Fuck," he whispers, and the anger fades.

 

Step Four: Shakiness

Tony’s hands are shaking as he grabs a pair of tweezers, and he just hopes they aren’t bad enough so that he can’t get the shards in his hand. He sits on the toilet seat, flattening the hand with glass in it over his thigh, and starts picking the pieces out. When they’re all out, he stands, and he’s probably imagining it, but his hands are shakier. He grabs the bottle of peroxide underneath the sink, and uncaps it, blowing out a harsh breath as he starts to pour the liquid over the back of his hand. He hisses at the sting, gritting his teeth, and watches it bubble for a while before washing his hand again and grabbing the first aid kit in the cabinet above the toilet.

Tony pulls out a cotton swab and the tube of Neosporin, putting a glob of the antibacterial goop on the swab and carefully rubbing it over the cuts on his knuckles. He reaches for the roll of gauze, and wraps it around his hand, making sure he can still move it a bit, but it should be just fine.

His hands shake even more, and then he notices his whole body is shaking, too. He folds his arms across his chest and waits for the quivering to subside.

 

Step Five: Anxiety

The shaking doesn’t stop, it instead grows as he feels his nervousness bubbling up. Tony stares at the mirror, and then at the shards in the sink, and feels bile rise in his throat. He sits on the toilet lid and puts his head between his knees, trying to ward off the feeling.

'I'm okay,' he tells himself. 'I'm okay. Howard is dead, he can't get mad at me for this.'

The anxiety begins to recede, and he sits up, able to breathe a bit better now. His lungs still feel like there’s a giant hunk of metal squashed between them - oh wait - but he feels a bit lighter.

Anxiety is always the shortest step, and Tony feels like it should be the longest, but it never is.

 

Step Six: Normality

Tony breathes deeply, eyes closed, as if trying to fill his lungs to bursting.

He opens his eyes, exhales, and puts away the first aid kit. He sweeps the broken glass into the trash, and leaves the bathroom, heading to his room to sleep, exhausted by the attack.

 

(Step Seven: Recovery

When he returns to their shared bed, Steve rolls over in his sleep and pulls Tony close. A warm, happy feeling blooms in his chest, and Tony falls asleep with a smile on his face.)


End file.
